


Spell of Making

by MemoryCrow



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Deal with a Devil, F/M, Magic, Mythopoetic, Pre-Series, The Dark One (Once Upon a Time)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 11:27:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8487559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: A wee, first person narrative. (The Dark One could be speaking to Belle; you decide).





	

**Author's Note:**

> Rumpelstiltskin to the Would-Be Sorceress.....

Step One: Buy a cauldron. Scout around for a man who will make a handsome toad.

  
Just kidding, dearie. Besides... Who could be a more handsome toad than I?

  
If you wish to become a practitioner of magic, then certainly I can teach you. But why should I? Perhaps we could come to some sort of... deal.

  
And more to the point, dearie; why do you wish it? What do you hope to accomplish? If it's _twu love_ you seek, you'd be better off without magic.

  
Have you no goals, no aspirations? Ah, I see. You seek magic for its own sake... you wish to see beneath the surface of things, the dreams beneath the crust of the earth. You crave secrets, access to hidden worlds... simply for... _Joy_?

  
Then you're a different lass, indeed. Do you not wish for more coin in your coin purse, more food in the larder, prettier dresses, an attendant staff and the loyalty of your chosen stud?

  
Do you not wish for revenge upon a wicked, selfish step-sister? A brute father? A negligent mother?

  
Do you not wish for the riches the world has to offer, and the power to keep them for yourself? Or, perhaps, spells to keep you young and beautiful, eternal and irresistible, seductive and enchanting? The fairest of them all.

  
Enchantress... isn't that the desire of many a young lady who gazes into a leaded, glass ball and tries to conjure crystal visions? Are you not like the lasses who come to me, in spite of their fear, and beg for their fortunes to be read? ' _Read it again_ ,' they demand when it is not the fortune they wished to hear. So hungry, they forget that they demand of the Dark One.

  
I've made many a deal to change a lady's fortune, dearie, in exchange for a lady's favor. I always keep my end of the bargain, and _I_ am nearly always the price of such magic.

  
Is that what you wish? Do you, too, forget that you deal with the Dark One?

  
You can't be as innocent, as guileless as you pretend. There is no such animal. Be plain, dearie. What is it that you _want_? You're a pretty thing... if it's a child, I can grant that wish with magic as common as dirt.

  
Close your eyes, and let me hold your hands. Be still. You give me visions, dearie...

  
Dreams.

  
An owl's flight at dusk, the low and silent swoop to skim over the fields, wing-tips frayed and soft.

  
The scurry, the rustle.

  
The little deer on nimble hooves, cloven and delicate, all white and aglow in the in-between times in which they forage.

  
There you are, dearie. I see you, in your twilight forest, the place where your mind moves with animals, birds and trees. You are surrounded by books, mind overly occupied. And yet... now I see that there is a blemish upon your innocence.

  
Masked by your busy mind, your body is ripe, open and _ready_. Waiting. Your soul yearns. Why do you not turn your charms to the men who would surely slake your thirst, dearie? Why seek magic, when what burns in your spirit has its source between your legs?

  
Yes, blush. That's sweet. The heat of it is a balm to an old lizard, such as myself. Blush and swell with blood, for it pleases me. But it doesn't answer me.

  
The answer is in your visions, your dreams. The sly, wicked wind that parts the grasses of the fields... the old women speak of 'the wolf in the rye', and you shiver. _With want_. Want of hungry tooth and fearsome jaw?

  
The useless scarecrow in the same field, poppies at the base of the cross on which he hangs, bloody and sacrificial. Unafraid, crows perch on his arms, and you wish to be one of them. To fly, to wheel to heaven and to soar under a white sun; to be a shadow of black. To be moving form in negative. You wish the scarecrow would come to animated life.

  
... These are passing strange thoughts, dearie.

  
Hips on roses, hair on corn, eyes on potatoes. Your wish springs from the compost heap.... Foliage that flowers and fruits... fruiting bodies... they creep and yearn in shadow and light. An autumn oddity of twisting gourd and broom corn. The dream, and perhaps even the dreamer; a seed in the dark... a corm, a rhizome... strange and gnarled in the deep, dark earth; insulated, keeping a ground temperature, sending out feelers. The scarecrow is a part of this, part of a cycle. You wish him to live, and take you inside of himself.

  
Dearie, what _is_ this? Do you wish to die?

  
Your dreams are spells of unmaking. You wish for magic to _undo_ you, you wish to come _undone_. The thread unraveled, the life reversed. You wish to _be_ the dream, only spirit, adrift.

  
Why?

  
Far be it from me to deny a lass her death wish, but I fail to see what's in it for me. And... it doesn't feel _right_ , dearie. Your blushes, your yearning and desire... these things _burn_. They are alive. They live in your body as well as your spirit, and they seek an answer.

  
Surely your answer is not death. Do you believe, then, that your answer is magic? Is it so difficult to be a part of the world? To love a man? To bear a child? Would you consort with a demon?

  
It is the strangest petition for magic I've received; but are you really so strange a woman?

  
Oh, dearie, dear. I've opened your visions and they won't shut up. They run rampant over me and fill this castle. Do you think to be my Viviane, Nimue, and ensorcell me into a lightning-struck tree, its charred branches filled with white ibises? You dream of _my_ unmaking, wretched girl, and seduce me with it. I've no wish to be undone. You'll find yourself back on the road, facing your sad and lonely field with nary a clue as to how you've arrived.

  
For I won't grant your wish, dearie.

  
Try as you might to tempt me into _unmaking_.... to give me the satisfaction of seeing my dark hands around your pale throat, feeling the bird-flutter of your pulse and thinking upon the release, the velvet _gush_ of biting into you...

  
What I will do is make a deal with you. You will leave with me a measure of your vision, and I will give you a Spell of Making. A spell to live, to belong. I will teach you to work it... I will gift you with practical magic.

  
.... But leave me with your darkest dreams, that I may wrap myself in them. Leave me a taste of the desire you feel, the throbbing between your legs as you wish to know a broom in flight, as you wish for an angel, a demon to drink your blood and burn the dross of your soul with the pounding of his cock. Leave with me your desire to be burned away, entirely... to drift, experiencing sensation through one being or another, watching. Dreaming.

  
Let me fuck you, once. I'll leave you filled with the magic you need.

  
Do we have a deal, dearie?

 

 

 

THE END

 

 


End file.
